Spymaster
by VividInfinity
Summary: Mabel finally found Jack, who doesn't remember his sister. The newsies are cautious. After all, plenty of girls come looking for the gorgeous leader of the strike. Rated T for future chapters.
1. Francis Sullivan

_And I'm a goddamn coward,_

_But then again, so are you,_

_And the lion's roar, the lion's roar,_

_Has me evading and hollering for you,_

_And I never really knew what to do_.

-First Aid Kit's _The Lion's Roar_

I found him.

I finally found him.

Nearly six years since I had seen him, and I finally found him.

I looked for him, everywhere.

But I was always too late.

I was in the factory when a newsie ran in, handing out papers to anyone who would take them.

We all tried to tell him we couldn't pay, but he didn't listen, yelling to everyone to go to the rally, support the newsies.

So I went.

I was at the head of the crowd that ran for the strike against Pulitzer, but I wasn't striking. I had a different goal in mind.

I tried to tell them that I had to get up there, to find him, but they wouldn't let me, and when it was all over, he rode away, and I knew I'd never see him again.

A week later, I got work of a newsie, the leader of Manhattan.

So I went to the Manhattan Lodging House.

The boys were loitering around outside in the heat, because I supposed it was too warm inside. A few held papes, some had bottles, others were counting money or playing cards.

I went up to one, a boy with a red shirt.

"I'm looking for someone," I began, when the boy next to him looked me over and said,

"So'm I, doll, an' I'd like it ta be you." The boy in red elbowed him and looked up at me. I could see the cards he held in his hand. Not a bad player.

"Who ya lookin' foah?" He asked. "We've all kinds o' folk round here."

"You'll know this boy," I said. I clasped my pocketbook in front of me, conscious of my prim blue flowered dress in this drab place. "His name is Francis Sullivan."

Every boy near us quieted. I looked around, my curls bouncing.

The boy who had insulted me stood. He had buck teeth, and a cap turned backwards.

I took a step back as newsboys closed in around me.

"What do a goil like you want wit' Cowboy?" Another boy asked.

"I don't want anything to do with a cowboy," I said. My curls bounced as I looked around me. I just knew that my heels were now caked in mud. "I'm looking for Francis Sullivan. I have to find him."

"Well, he's taken," Another voice said, and I whirled to find a boy with an eyepatch glaring at him. "An' 'e wouldn't fall fer no rich goil, neidah."

"No," I protested. "You don't understand. My name is Mabel and I—" But someone cut me off, a voice coming from the entrance to the lodging house.

A boy stood there, about seventeen, with a bandana and a waistcoat. He leaned in the doorway, eyes peering at me.

The boys reacted like soldiers who have gone through this routine before. They abandoned me, leaving to huddle behind and around Francis, who stepped down from the doorway, to come closer. Some of the younger boys huddled in front of him, and the older ones peered at me from behind and next to Francis.

"She says 'er name's Mabel," A boy called out.

I glared in the direction of the voice. I gripped my purse, conscious of my muddy heels, my lipstick stained lips, my blue flowered dress, my hat with a rose in it. I didn't belong around here, with the boys who sold papers for a penny each. "That's right," I said, with an upper class accent. I looked at Francis. "I've been looking for you," I was so scared, and I knew I was a coward. I hadn't seen him in forever, and I was scared of what he would think of me.

"What for?" He asked. "I ain't gonna go out wit' you," Francis told me.

"No, Francis, you've got it all wrong!" I told him. "don't you remember me?"

Francis cocked his head to peer at me. A few other newsies followed suit, and one bonked heads with another, but I was too scared to laugh. My dark brown curls were wet at the roots from sweat, and I tossed my head a bit to push them back.

Francis shook his head, and his hair flopped. "Can't 'membah you'se at all."

"So go away," a newsie called.

"No, Francis!" I cried. I started forward, and the newsies tensed, so I stopped. "Francis, you _have_ to remember me! It's been a long time, and we've both changed, but you just _have_ to remember me!"

Francis shook his head, and turned away.

"No," I muttered under my breath. "No,"

But Francis just walked to the lodging house. The newsboys glared at me, forming a shield between me and Francis.

"No!" I yelled, and charged. "No, Francis, no!" The boys caught me and pushed me away. I just ran back in. "Francis Sullivan, get back here now!" I screamed. The boys pushed me away, and I fell into a puddle of mud. I scrambled to my feet, soaked through and filthy, my hat on the ground. "Francis Sullivan, you bastard, I'm your sister!" I yelled as he disappeared into the lodging house. "Get your ass out here!" I stormed for the lodging house door, kicking my heels off as I went. I kicked two boys who got in my way, and I slapped another across the face. I still clutched my purse in my left hand. "Francis James Sullivan, please listen to me!" I yelled at him.

I ran up the stairs, following the footsteps of my brother. Boys on the stairs, and an old man at a desk looked up, staring at me. I ignored them.

"Listen to me!" I yelled finally, furiously, in a deserted room. Francis stopped. He turned, and glared at me. I shut the door behind me.

"What?" Francis demanded. "You're nuts," He told me. "I don't got a sister called Mabel."

I turned from shutting the door, tucking my curls behind my ears. "Six years ago, your father was sent to jail for killing a man." Francis glared at me. "Your mother died of pneumonia. You were eleven, and your sister was ten." As Francis opened his mouth, and I came closer and held up a hand for him to stop. "You ran, and left her alone. You stole food and got stuck in the refuge. So you weren't there when our Great-Aunt Brunhilde heard our parents died."

Newsies stormed through the door. Someone yelled, "Grab 'er! Getter outta heah!"

"She took me away, Francis, and gave me a new name!" I yelled at him as newsboys grabbed me. "She took me away, and gave me a home, and helped me look for you! But you weren't there, Francis, because you forgot all about your sister, for six whole years, you bastard!" I fought the newsies. "Don't touch me!" I yelled at them. "Let me go!"

They dragged me out the door, down the stairs. It only took three of them, because I wasn't that big for a girl about to turn sixteen in a month. As they pulled me out the door, I yelled back at Francis. "Her name was Alana Sullivan, Francis! You forgot about her!"

They tossed me into the street, again, and I was soaked in mud, again.

I grabbed my muddy shoes, my hat, and my purse.

I was a coward, I knew. So was Francis, but that wasn't the point.

I made my way back home, to one of the richest households in New York.


	2. Back Story

_You'd know how the time flies.  
>Only yesterday was the time of our lives.<br>We were born and raised  
>In a summer haze,<em>

-Adele's _Someone Like You_

My childhood was difficult, and a bit strange.

My brother and I were the best of friends, and I remember the good times we had together.

Dumping the neighbors' cat in a bucket of blue paint.

Playing catch with our mother's pincushion.

Tag in the park.

Buying papes from the newsies.

One of my earliest memories was hazy, a bit blurred, but I knew what happened, because I had been told it so many times.

That was the day that Great-Aunt Brunehilde came to visit. We called her by her middle name, because Brunhilde was a long name. We called her Aunt Beth. She was an old thing, sort of cranky, but she had a kind heart under layers of discipline. She brought us presents, and then spoke a lot with our parents.

She made our parents agree that, if anything happened to them, that we would go to her. She left with a kiss and a hug, and after that our father immediately grabbed bottle from a cupboard. This was a cue to me and Francis to run. Our father was a terrible drunkard, and our mother was afraid of his fits of temper when drunk, so we all knew that we kids had to stay out of the way. Our mother would do as he said, and go away, or stay, or make him food, or put him to bed when he got too drunk, because she cared for him.

Back then, we had a little brother, only four years old. His name was Adam, and it was always Francis and my job to take him away whenever my father started drinking.

That was one of the worst days of my life.

While drunk, my father killed Adam. My mother tried to stop him, but a single blow knocked her out, and Francis and I couldn't do anything to stop our father.

We ran as far as we could, while Adam shrieked and cried.

We hid in the corner of our room, but our father found us. Eyes bloodshot and wild, his hands trembling from the drink, he turned on us.

He seized Adam, and threw him against the wall. I heard a crack, a single crack, and Adam didn't move. Francis and I screamed. Our father went for me next, but Francis jumped at him, and he dropped me.

Throwing Francis away, into the wall besides Adam's corpse, he turned on me again, but I ran out of the room.

He looked and looked for me, but couldn't find me.

He eventually conked out, and when he was sober again, hours later, we all mourned Adam.

My father apologized over and over again, and we knew he hadn't meant to hurt us, but he had, and that was what mattered.

When I was ten years old, in a drunken rage, my father killed a man.

A few months later, my mother died of pneumonia, and we didn't know what to do.

Our mother's last words to us were, "Find the key," She had coughed. "It will lead to you the center."

The next few years were both good and bad. We had some happy times, albeit sad, me and Francis. Then he disappeared, and Aunt Beth came for me, and we couldn't find Francis.

My life wasn't that bad, though, because I knew others who had a worse life.

As I walked through the doorway, muddy and soaked through, I remembered the first time I had walked through those doors.

"Mabel!" Aunt Beth exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

"I found him, Aunt Beth," I said blankly, without any emotion. I stared off into space. "I finally found him, and he didn't remember me."

"Well, where was he, Mabel?" Aunt Beth asked.

I shook my head. I couldn't tell her. I owed Francis that much. He was my brother, after all, and so I had to solve this myself.

So, instead, I went up to my room, and I took a bath in steaming water, and I told my maid to go away, and I changed into a fresh dress and brushed my hair, and I grabbed some money, and went to the market to clear my head.


	3. Forgotten

_And I remember how you told me all you wanted to do,  
>That dream of Paris in the morning or a New York window view,<br>I can see it,_

_Now you're married and your wife is with a child,  
>And you're all laughing in the garden and I'm lost somewhere in your mind<br>_-First Aid Kit's _Ghost Town_

I was walking in the market, my purchase of a book of poetry in my hand, when I saw him.

He was talking with someone, a girl.

She had long brown hair, and deep brown eyes. She looked a middle class girl, judging by her clothes, and naturally, I had to find a place to stop and snoop.

I picked a shop next to them, a shop that sold dresses. I pretended to be interested in a white dress with a high collar.

" . .Sarah, what's wrong?"

So the girl's name was Sarah? Nice name, but that didn't matter.

" . . .something to tell you, Jack," Sarah said. Jack? Who was Jack? I assumed it was Francis, but Jack wasn't his name.

"What is it, Sarah? Is something wrong?" Francis sounded frantic, as though he was afraid. He had forgotten me already. "Is David alright? Les? Yer ma? Yer pa?"

"No, no, Jack, they're fine." Sarah said. "Nothing like that, Jack,"

" . . .what, Sarah? . . .scare me like that. Please, tell me what it is,"

"Jack," Sarah sounded like she was saying something that Francis could react to in any way, good or bad. "Jack, I'm pregnant."

I decided to leave then. Francis Sullivan. A father. I, a sixteen year old girl whose brother didn't remember her, was going to be the aunt of a child born out of wedlock to a seventeen year old newsboy and a middle class girl whose family would likely murder the father of said baby.

What would I tell Aunt Beth?

Well, I couldn't leave, so I ventured further into the shop to finger lace on dresses, and different cloths.

"You're pregnant?" I couldn't escape their voices, although they weren't very loud.

Silence for a second.

I could tell that Francis was hugging Sarah, because the silence wasn't an uncomfortable one. I was forgotten. I had never existed. Francis's mind was flooded with images of his future child, and of the multiple ways Sarah's parents would murder him.

"What'll we do?" Sarah asked. "What'll I tell my parents?"

I was the ultimate spy now, deep in enemy territory, listening in on strategy plans.

"We'll figure somfin out," Jack assured Sarah.

Sarah gasped. "What'll I tell Davey?"

"Calm down, Sarah," I almost rolled my eyes. Francis himself sounded like he was on the verge of hyperventilating. "We won't tell 'em 'till we gotta."

Sarah fidgeted. "Will you still go to Santa Fe?"

Francis didn't say anything.

Santa Fe? He wanted to go to Santa Fe? He couldn't! Not now!

"I don't know yet, Sarah," Francis said. "Da baby changes everythin'. Don't worry, Sarah, I'll figure out somfin."


	4. Plans

_You never met a chick like me,_

_Burn so bright, I'm gonna make you blind,_

-Elizabeth Gillies and Ariana Grande's _Give It Up_ from _Victorious_

I knew what I had to do.

It would take a while.

First thing I did, I worked on my street talk. I couldn't do an accent, but I worked on talking street.

Next thing, I forged an invitation from a pretend friend who lived in Charleston, and the letter asked Aunt Beth if I would spend a few weeks with them.

Aunt Beth said I could go.

Next thing, I sheared off my waist length dark curls, to my shoulders.

And I did what I had to do.

I went to the place I knew would serve me best.

Queens.

It was widely known that Queens was matriarchal. It would serve me best, for my own reasons.

I was going to get Francis back home, to be my brother again, but I couldn't do it alone. I'd need help, the help of other girls.

So as soon as I left my Aunt Beth with a hug and a kiss, I ducked into an alley.

I pulled a mirror out of my purse, and a stick of lipstick. I tinted my lips darker, and adjusted my hat to fall over my face, leaving my eyes in shadow.

I had picked my dress to cut low in the front, and my dress was shorter than most, to just above my knees. My heels were delicate, and my gloves were soft and white.

I was gorgeous, and I smiled.

Mabel Sullivan was ready for work.

Once in Queens, I headed for the center, where there would be the most newsies.

I was right, there were more newsies, one on almost every street corner.

I grinned. I knew what to do.

I picked a target, and went in for the kill.

He was a tall boy, skinny, but handsome, I guess, holding a large stack of papes. An experienced seller, I guessed, but not my type.

I went up to him, my purse clutched in my hand.

He looked at me, and whistled.

"Hello, gorgeous," He said. He offered me a newspaper. "Buy a pape?"

I gave him a smile, and held out a quarter.

He gave me the pape, and was pulling change out of his pocket, when I held up a hand.

"Please," I said, with a middle class accent. I fluttered my lashes prettily. "Keep the change."

He stared at me, practically drooling.

"I was wondering if there was something else you could do for me?" I asked. I kept smiling at him. "I want you to take me to your leader." The newsie's eyes were wide.

"Who're you?" He asked. "What do ya wanna see Majesty foah?"

I pulled out another quarter. "I'm her spymaster." I said, holding out the coin. "And the birdies are back with news."

The boy, Queens' second in command, a boy called Baron, did take me to see Majesty.

Her headquarters was a lodging house for girls, in a small street off the main square of Queens. It looked in better shape than the Manhattan lodging house. Inside, girls stared as Baron led me up the stairs. I bet that they didn't get my type in here often.

Instead of leading me to the main bunkroom, Baron led m off to the side, to a small dark door I almost missed.

He knocked once, then twice, then once, and then kicked the door.

"Come in," A girl's voice came from behind the door.

Baron opened the door, and I looked around.

There was a small bed, a dresser, a hook, and cap on the dresser. That was it, but what caught my attention was the rafters.

They were thick, all across the room, as if someone had torn the ceiling off to find them.

On top of one, sat a barefoot girl with short, ragged and spiky reddish-brown hair. She looked at me with piercing silvery eyes. She wore an open waistcoat and a simple cream shirt with the top few buttons torn off. The ends of her long brown pants were rolled up to around her shins, and one leg draped over the rafter, the other in a triangle with it. One arm hung at her side, the other rested on her knee.

"Majesty, dis goil," Baron looked at me, then back at the leader of Queens. "Says she's da Spymastah."

With one fluid movement, Majesty swung her other leg off the rafter, and jumped down, to land solidly on one knee, one hand on the ground. She looked up, and the light streaming from the window made her look fierce, her silver eyes glinting with golden sunlight.

"Leave us, Baron," Majesty said. Baron didn't hesitate, only left and shut the door behind him.

I looked at her.

"Who are you?" Like me, Majesty spoke with a middle class accent, though hers was a little more adjusted to street talk. "I don't got a Spymaster."

I grinned, and took off my hat. "It's why I offer my services, Majesty."

Majesty sat in something I hadn't noticed before, though I didn't see how I'd missed it. It was something of a hammock hanging from the rafters, with dark cream cloth.

"What've you got to offer Queens?" Majesty asked.

I told her, "I know things. About the rich folk, about politics, about New York, and about Francis Sullivan."

Majesty peered at me. "Why do I gotta take you in? Why not go to the Bronx, or Midtown, or Harlem?"

"Because everyone knows that Queens is better than all those places," I said. "And Queens has all the girls in it."

"So?"

"So," I said, coming closer. "Queens is the gossip center of New York. But no spy network?" I raised an eyebrow. "I can fix that."

Majesty thought it over.

"What's in it for you?" She asked finally.

I smirked. "I've nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, no way else to live. And plus, I get to work with actual girls, instead of all boys all the time."

Majesty thought some more. I could almost see the gears turning in her head.

"What are your terms?" She said finally.

I smiled, wider than I've ever smiled before.

"My own room, with a table and a chair. And a light for the table." I said first of all. Majesty bit her lip.

"Your own room, yes. You can have the table, the chair, but no light." Majesty said, "What else?"

"I don't sell papers. I've money enough, and my work required me to do other things. I'll sell papes to keep up appearances, but I don't have to, and I'll sometimes disappear, got that?" Majesty nodded, if a bit reluctantly.

I continued. "I get permission to recruit whoever I want for a birdie." I said. Majesty smiled, smirked, more like, and nodded.

"Anything else?"

I nodded. Here was the big thing. "You take me along to your meetings with the other leaders. And you introduce me as the Spymaster."


	5. Birdies

_There's only two types of people in the world,_

_The ones who entertain and the ones who observe,_

-Britney Spears' _Circus_

I looked around at my new room.

I liked it.

There was a desk, a simple desk with a simple chair. The single drawer in the desk locked, and I had the only key. The light bulb on the ceiling was a fresh, and lit up the small room. There was a plain dresser, and a hook. I'd brought clothes for being a spymaster, all sorts of clothes. Newsie clothes, gutter rat clothes, rich clothes, middle class clothes, immigrant clothes, all sorts. I had tucked these into the dresser. On top, I had my brush, my pocket mirror, a pocket knife I'd stolen, and a few dollars in a small wallet.

In the center of the room was my bed, and I eyed it warily, because it was late, but I couldn't go to bed yet.

No, I had interviews to conduct.

I'd handpicked a couple of likely recruits, and they were to come in one by one so I could interview them and give them assignments.

The first person wandered in, looking nervous.

It was a girl, a few years younger than me. Good, she would get into one of the more sentimental boroughs with no trouble.

She looked about ten, maybe eleven.

"Hello," I said. "What's your name?"

"Nickel," She said. She had large eyes, pale blue and sharp, each about as big as a nickel themselves.

"Well, Nickel, tell me about yourself."

In the end, I assigned Nickel to Staten Island, because I knew that Staten Island took in the runaways, the orphans, the forgotten, the young, the disabled, anyone who needed a home. I told Nickel to report to me in three weeks, with whatever she could find. Then I would decide what for her to specialize in.

In two hours, I assigned people to nearly all the districts.

Vaudeville to the Bowery, Rank to the Bronx, Doll to Midtown, Shoeshine to help Nickel at Staten Island, a pair of twins called Flick and Nick to Harlem, and a newsie called Cockerel to help Vaudeville in the Bowery. Coney Island was taken by a boy called Thorn, and East Side was covered by two girls, Lil' and Scurry. A boy called Romeo took West Side, and that left only one district.

Manhattan.

But I was out of recruits.

But, as I scribbled down the names of my new birdies, I made a mistake.

I assumed. And that, readers, is what you must never do.

_Never_ assume something, never take anything for granted.

Because I was scared out of my wits when one more girl entered.

I jumped.

"Spymastah?" The girl asked.

I settled in my seat again. "Yeah?"

"I wanted to be a birdie,"

The girl sat down on the bed, across from the desk. "M'name's Laurel." She had a touch of innocence about her, something that made me think she would listen and look, and keep quiet, and get in good with her targets. "I'm fourteen, an' I've been a birdie afore."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Laurel nodded. "I was Harlem a couple years before the strike, and I spied on Queens. Majesty caught me and let me join."

"Why were you caught?" I asked her. I didn't want a spy who'd get caught easy.

Laurel shrugged. "Majesty had a couple of her newsies follow me. Queens is sneaky like that."

I grinned. "You're hired."

She grinned right back at me. "What's m'signment, boss?"

I told her, "I need you to go to Manhattan, and spy on them there. Report anything that might be of interest, anything at all, and come back somehow or other in exactly two weeks. I don't care how you get in or out, just do it."

Laurel nodded, and just like that, she was gone, disappeared out the door.

I smiled. I was satisfied now, because I'd finished my birdies, and I wrote on a sheet of paper, _Manhattan-Laurel_.

Here, I put the sheet here for you to see.

_Manhattan-Laurel_

_Staten Island-Nickel, Shoeshine_

_Bronx-Rank_

_Midtown-Doll_

_Bowery-Vaudeville, Cockerel_

_East Side-Lil', Scurry_

_West Side-Romeo_

_Harlem-Flick, Nick_

_Coney Island-Thorn_

Meet my spy network. For now.

I grinned wider, and flopped into bed. I was asleep before I hit the sheets.

My birdies were in place. All they had to do now was watch the show and wait.


End file.
